


S3MXT: A Shassie Love Story (Vol. 2) - Side B

by grabthefish



Series: S3MXT: A Shassie Love Story [4]
Category: Psych
Genre: Alternate Reality Madness, Angst, Believing In Each Other, Called Out On His Crap, Coming Off The Cop High, Concussions and Conclusions, Cooler Than Cool, Couldn't Hate You If I Tried, Dancing With Disaster, Explosive Realizations, Flashbacks, Heart-Breaking Happenings, Hoping For Fuckery, Humor, If You're Worried And You Know It Draw Your Gun, Introspection, M/M, Maudlin Man, Meaning Every Word, Mixtape, More Addicting Than Meth, Open-Hearted Apologies, Psych - Freeform, Reasons To Go, Reasons To Stay, Romance, Rookie Mistake, Rueful Rumination, Season 3, Serving Shawn His Own Words, Shame Is A Folly In Which I Refuse To Partake, Shassie, So Many Pop Culture References Its Stupid, The Take A Chance Dance, The Talk, The Things That Matter, The Truth Hurts, The Truth Is Also Hilarious, Waiting For Tomorrow, Waiting Impatiently, What I Like About You, Who I Really Am, Why We Are The Way We Are, Why We Love The Way We Do, show time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2019-08-09 01:19:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16440362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabthefish/pseuds/grabthefish
Summary: S3MXT: Season 3 Mixtape - set to an 80's soundtrack; the story behind the story, all while keeping as canonical as possible.Lassie being framed for a murder he didn't commit results in a lot of deep thought when Shawn gets kidnapped in the process, during which we find out what Gus had to say post bathroom blowout. Lassie saves the day and comes to new conclusions he should have come to a long time ago. An explosion brings about a new perspective for both boys and after some important conversations, a bet is made that changes everything.Track List:16. Danger Zone - 3.11 Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing17. It's Only Love - 3.11 Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing18. Wicked Game - 3.12 Earth, Wind and... Wait For It19. Can't Fight This Feeling/I Think We're Alone Now - 3.12 Earth, Wind and... Wait For It20.*Must be read after S3MXT Vol. 2 (Side A) for continuity's sake





	1. Danger Zone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter takes place during season 3 episode 11: Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing  
> ** The accompanying song is Danger Zone by Kenny Loggins
> 
> Shawn gets kidnapped by Drimmer and spends his time impatiently waiting for Lassie to take the crooked cop's bait by thinking about everything that brought him to this point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mixtape's playlist, go [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr); listen before, after, or during - the choice is yours, as long as you enjoy. New songs will be posted with the chapter they are attached to.

* * *

Shawn couldn't believe he had let his ego get the best of him.

Well, he could, but he really didn't want to.

It wasn't that he had a romantic interest in Juliet – nor she him, nothing having happened after April's cryptic comments to make him think she did – but when Drimmer dropped her name and started talking about all the things she'd supposedly said, he couldn't help but wonder if it was true. In fact, his self-pride had burst at the seams with every word spoken. He'd lived his entire life with a father who never thought he was good enough, after all, and no matter how hard he tried not to let it, it eventually took its toll – the negging and bitching and belittling acting like emotional erosion.

Could he really be blamed for wanting to hear that someone thought the best of him every once in a while?

He didn't think so.

It was the throbbing of his face that eventually woke him. When Shawn realized he was at Lassie's house – a place he'd always wanted to wake up in, albeit for very different reasons - it didn't take long to figure out what had gone on; Drimmer's ink-stained and obviously guilty fingers holding a gun on him was all the proof he needed. And while Shawn took it as a compliment that the dirty detective was worried enough to psychic-nap him – even more so when he acknowledged Shawn's ability to smart-ass his way out of everything – he also questioned whether the cop might be right about his inability to work his way out of this, hating the fact that the thought even crossed his mind.

Drimmer had said he wasn't going to kill Shawn, and while that had him curious, the look on the man's face said it didn't mean he wasn't willing to shoot him to shut him up. So that's what Shawn did. He shut up and sat, waiting for whatever came next and the opportunity it would present him with.

The problem was, of course, that Shawn was not a patient man, stuck in a situation where he had no choice but to be.

It was Lassie's fault, really. He had been on such a downward spiral lately and Shawn had just been so damn happy to see things turning around for him that when it all came apart, he couldn't help but want to help him pick up the pieces. He wasn't quite over what had gone on between them in the bar bathroom, but he  _was_  working towards it; learning to let live and let go, not wishing anything worse on Lassiter than he'd already had to deal with.

Then Chavez got shot, an act that broke his favorite detective, and triggered something in Shawn that he just couldn't bear. Cause the thing was, this time the hell wasn't something that Lassiter had done to himself; it was something being done  _to_  him. And there was no way Shawn was letting such a hard-working, dependable man like Lassie lose everything he'd ever endeavored because of the crooked cop in front of him. Not if his life depended on it.

Which turns out it might.

Shawn didn't know why he was fighting for the man so vociferously, arguing his innocence when he couldn't be certain Lassie would do the same for him. Though the man could be a bastard at times, too wrapped up in himself to realize how he affected others, Carlton was the one person Shawn could always count on to be strong and true. Even when they weren't getting along, he knew that Lassiter's integrity and intelligence would be what led the way, the man refusing to suffer fools or acknowledge bullshit – especially bullshit of the pseudo-psychic scented variety.

It was, Shawn supposed, one of the reasons he had started crushing on the man in the first place; the dour detective the perfect foil to test himself against – never shaking or breaking under the insurmountable pressures of the job, never succumbing to the aggravating attitude Shawn regularly presented him with. Lassie might tell him to shut up and he might throw him around from time to time, but he never let Shawn wear him down or manipulate him like other weaker people had and would.

Lassieface was who he was, and he was unashamed of that.

It didn't seem to matter what Shawn did to get his goat, either. The Head Detective always remained both sure of himself and sure that Shawn wasn't psychic, the only person in his life outside of Henry who refused to put up with his shit. But whereas Henry just steamrolled right over his son, Lassie sparred with Shawn instead, both men fighting with their words so intensely it was practically foreplay. Combined with arms wrapped around each other as Carlton repeatedly escorted him out of a room or off a case – body pressed against body as he was manhandled away – and the fact that the detective was always the first to warn him to watch out for danger, words laced with both worry and frustration, it was no wonder Shawn had fallen head over heels for the cop.

Well, that and Lassie was a walking wet dream, what with his ridiculously sexy stern-bush, his gravelly, growly 'tell-Spencer-off' voice, and his deliciously bitable butt and all – not that Shawn had managed to get anywhere near Lassie's ass yet. Lassiter might not realize it, but he was practically fake-psychic bait,  _and_  while it hadn't worked out between them, Shawn was glad he had tried, their sexual attraction crackling on a level he had never experienced before.

It wasn't just his libido talking though. Sure, it had been the original reason he had taken interest in the detective, but then  _feelings_  had gone and gotten themselves involved. Lassie didn't just put the tick-tock in his cock clock, he was also his anchor. His own human grounding agent. That stringy thingy on a kite that made sure it didn't float away. He was Shawn's very real tether to reality and in his touch, Shawn had felt a promise to catch him if ever he fell. Because that's what Lassie did – he protected and served. And with Shawn, though the man had never actually said it, he knew it went far beyond the call of duty, having weaseled his way into the man's heart long before either ever knew it had happened.

Shawn wasn't stupid; he was aware that he challenged the cop on a regular basis. Not only because he was Lassie's opposite in personality, but because he knew the man couldn't deny his sleuthing skills, much as he may disapprove of his methods. Aggravating Lassie was, in fact, a thing Shawn did on purpose. But that was the thing, wasn't it? Every Abbott needed his Costello, every Kirk his Spock. And Shawn was pretty sure they were each other's – two halves of the same whole, each man making the other better in ways neither would have ever imagined.

Lassie would never be anything other than Captain Logic, he knew, but ever since Shawn had started working for the PD, he'd noticed that Lassiter had discovered the meaning of empathy – or, at least, what passed as empathy for the detective anyhow. It wasn't that he expressed it often, of course, but there had been times in the past where Shawn had been given cause to pause, Lassie surprising him by taking time to think about what he was going to next say rather than brashly blowing his way straight through the situation. He was no longer the guy who thought compassion was simply not selling the theatre seat someone had recently died on but had become a man who knew to send his partner to deal with emotional labor because it was a task at which he was likely to fail.

Shawn was sure that Jules had rubbed off on him a bit there, too, but he believed it was he who had become the most humanizing element in Lassie's toolbox – an answer to all the problems that he hadn't been aware he'd had. Shawn was the yin to Lassie's yang, the butter to his popcorn, the spark that lit his slightly uptight and poorly be-suited fire. But it wasn't just that Lassie had changed; Shawn had changed, too. He made Lassie look outside the box he'd been trapped in for the vast majority of his life and Lassie had given Shawn a much-needed focal point to springboard off of - his crazy ideas only given clout once Lassiter's staunch police work backed it up.

It made Shawn feel safe. Safe and understood, even when the man was mocking him incessantly or devaluing his efforts.

It might have even had something to do with why he hadn't left Santa Barbara yet.

Ever since he'd graduated, Shawn had spent most of his life on the road, never pausing long enough to grow new roots anywhere if he could avoid it. His roots were here even though he rarely was, Shawn always disappearing when things got rough, the memories attached to his hometown something he constantly tried to outrun.

But this time had been different.

Yes, he had reconnected with Gus, but he did that every time he came home, his childhood best friend usually the reason he returned in the first place. Shawn always felt bad about leaving the man, usually doing so in the middle of the night or while Gus was at work, too overwhelmed by whatever he was feeling to say goodbye. But Gus was used to it by now, and while Shawn tended to regret it for a few days afterward, it was never going to be the thing that kept him there.

He'd started making peace with Henry, too, although his father was half the reason he avoided Santa Babs like the plague to begin with, and seven out of ten times the thing that drove him away. So, while he enjoyed their tentatively budding father/son relationship for what it was, Shawn was always waiting for the other shoe to drop onto his mental gas pedal and trigger his need to flee.

He didn't get why things always had to be Henry's way or the highway and when given the choice, the highway's siren song always called too strong. It didn't matter that he and his dad were working on salvaging things between them; if Shawn felt the need to leave, his familial obligations would fall by the wayside and all Henry would get would be a text post-ghost saying  _hasta la bye-bye._

Shawn loved Psych, and he was sure that it was the other half of the reason he hadn't left yet – not because doing so would disappoint Gus or prove his father right but because for the first time in his life he felt like he had a real purpose. Psych was a way for him to use the memory cursed on him by his mother and the training forced on him by his father, all wrapped in a special Shawn-ian bow and able to fulfill his need for a goal outside of himself.

Money would come and money would go, printed pieces of paper that he could attain in multiple ways, far less important to him than the average thirty-one-year-old. What Shawn  _really_  wanted – the thing that floated his boat like a Fisher Price bath-time toy – was to be needed. To be challenged. To be given a chance to prove himself and make a difference of some kind.

Not that anyone ever realized it.

On more than one occasion – usually by his own father – he had been accused of doing what he did for glory. And while true he did from time to time enjoy the limelight, the assumption hurt. Glory wasn't even close to the reason behind it, and the fact that he'd never taken credit for the Vallery case proved as much. Shawn did it because, though he didn't acknowledge it often, the world was full of injustice; it was a broken-down hunk of rock spinning on people's usually failed hopes and dreams and it made him want to make it somehow suck less.

If he just so happened to use his masterful powers of melodrama and amuse himself in the process? Well... what was wrong with bringing a little light to the daily darkness?

Shawn had always been out to entertain himself first, of course, learning from a young age that it was up to him to make his life worth living. But it wasn't until three and a half years ago that Shawn realized he could combine his need to avoid boredom with his desire to do some good. Starting his own holistic detective agency changed that. Sure, calling in tips from the comfort of his couch made him money and saved the day, but Psych… Psych allowed him to flourish in ways he hadn't even known he needed, not realizing his soul had practically atrophied until he put it to good use again.

Which never would have ever happened without Lassie.

Every day since, he had thanked whatever entity was out there that it had been Officer Allen working the front desk that day. When Lassie had gotten belligerent with him, it was only her belief in mumbo jumbo that saved his ass, Shawn latching on to her superstition to claim he was a psychic, the demonstration he'd given to the angry Head Dick the only thing that kept him out of a cell. Lassiter hadn't been listening, so determined was he to bring Shawn to an undeserved justice, and his thick-headedness had cost him. Had allowed Shawn an opening that would change both their lives for good.

Who would have thought that a conversation with a behemoth of a bully with an ax to grind against his ex and her new boo would result in cutting Carlton's knees out from under him?

Even more surprising, who would have thought that Shawn's need to prove Lassie wrong on the MacCallum case would not only result in his having a career he wanted to keep for as long as he could, but plant the seeds of desire, the psychic quickly coming to find that he wanted to spend all his waking moments with the cop who tried to unjustly arrest him in the first place?

Hell, through some sort of Celtic witchery, the Irishman had bespelled him, his creamy skin, cerulean eyes, and cranky disposition somehow breaking Shawn's commitment-phobe patterns. Lassie made him want nothing more than to crawl into his lap and bed and heart and stay there maybe a day past forever.

Or at least he had, prior to Lassie having a heterosexual freak-out in a seedy little bar while shoving Shawn as physically and emotionally far from him as he could.

Lassie had lost it and his reaction had shredded Shawn's feelings, the pieces of his bloody and still beating heart packed away in tiny little boxes and shipped off to the ends of the earth Buffy the Vampire Slayer season two style. He was living the real-life version of both Surprise  _and_  Innocence and it broke his fucking heart when his not very sweet but  _totally_  stolid Lassie had popped Shawn's care-cherry and practically lost his soul right after.

Well, maybe not lost his soul, but he'd definitely turned into a raging jack-ass, nonetheless. Lassie had experienced his moment of true happiness and had gone off the deep-end, completely overcompensating for his homo-erotic adventure by punishing them both.

And Shawn had hated –  _still_  hated – every moment of it.

He wished that could have been the end of it.

He wished he could have been as strong as the sultry Miss Summers, wished he could have picked up a rocket launcher and blown this whole situation to smithereens. But he didn't and couldn't, lacking a fake-military friend to infiltrate the nearest army base for him. Instead he had Gus, with whom he had talked for hours on end that fateful night, moving from the bench by the ocean to the couch in the office, ordering pity-pizza and getting into  _way_  more detail than his buddy had wanted to hear.

Gus was a good friend like that and his anger at Lassiter made him an even better one. The pharma-rep had been unable to wrap his mind around the reasons Lassie gave for acting the way he had and refused to accept the excuses Shawn found himself offering on the cop's behalf.

Gus had also pointed out that Lassie was stupider than he let on if he hadn't believed he'd been flirting with Shawn from the very start. For someone who had attained the title of youngest Head Detective in Santa Barbara history, Gus had intoned, Lassiter certainly had his head up his ass about what his tendency to throw Shawn up against walls said.

Shawn had blinked at that, a stupid look on his face as he asked what Gus had meant.

Gus had been so confused when Shawn had brought up being into Lassiter – his shock at the news of the psychic's first make-out session with the detective both obvious and evident – that Shawn had difficulty accepting his best buddy could have ever seen this coming. He had found himself floored when Gus admitted that years of watching Shawn act the fool had allowed him to pick up a trick or two of his own. Gus had informed him rather matter-of-factly actually, that it was – from time to time – easier to dissuade him by playing dumb than it was to try to logic some sense into his head.

And according to Gus, doing Lassiter was not just dumb but extremely stupid – both the action and the person.

" _C'mon, Shawn,"_ he had said. _"Do you really think I didn't notice? Hell, I'm surprised it took you so long to catch on. It was the equivalent of you pulling pigtails in the third grade, dude. And Lassiter acted like the butch kid who didn't want to be outed but couldn't stop himself from flirting so turned it into aggression instead."_

" _What? No –"_ Shawn had objected, with Gus promptly interjecting.

" _I may pretend to be an idiot well enough to win an Emmy,"_ he smirked, swiping his thumb across his nose to accentuate the smug look on his face,  _"but I'm not stupid. I did graduate with a 3.7 GPA, after all."_

Shawn hadn't known what to say to that, the occasion of being hoodwinked by his bestie being so incredibly rare. He just… no. It wasn't possible.

" _But –"_

" _But,"_ Gus had continued, his voice turning serious and his face doing the same, _"I figured if I didn't acknowledge it, you wouldn't acknowledge it. So sue me if I didn't want to deal with the stress of what validating your absolutely insane crush would do. I mean, look how bad things got without me stepping in to set you straight. Or gay. Or whatever."_

" _But –"_

" _Validating you is_ _ **dangerous**_ _, Shawn,"_ Gus said, shrugging his shoulders and shooting a glare, his hand on Shawn's shoulder in commiseration. _"Or did you forget what happened at the Mexican border? Because I haven't, and I'd really like to."_

He'd paused, and Shawn had furrowed his brow, his mind racing.

" _Both times."_

" _Gus, no. I just…"_

Shawn shook his head, refusing to believe it.

" _There was no way you knew Lassie was into me before I did. There is just no way."_

Gus had sighed, that same exasperated sigh he'd made two hours into their heated discussion about who the best James Bond was. It was obviously Connery, but the sound meant that not only did Gus disagree, he was also serious. Seriously serious.

" _Okay, you want proof?"_ Gus said. _"Let me be you for a minute and I'll list off all the ways anyone with half a brain would have noticed."_

Shawn had cocked his head, unsure of what Gus was getting at but willing to listen.

" _He wrestled you against a kitchen counter in a display of dominance both Juliet and I thought looked like pornography. It was weird, Shawn. Men who aren't into men don't do that."_

He flicked a finger up, indicating that was the first of many examples, ignoring Shawn as his face turned red, the psychic wondering when exactly Gus and Jules had discussed it and how uncomfortable his pal had been when Jules – because he just  _knew_  it had been Jules – had brought up the idea of porn _._

" _When he wants us off a case, if his hands aren't wrapped around your shoulders, his fingers are at the nape of your neck as he drags you away. Almost buried in your hair, really."_ Gus added as an afterthought.  _"Which, because you are a hair narcissist, you would hate if it were anyone but him."_

Shawn squawked in disbelief but Gus continued, talking over the noise and raising a second finger.

" _It's_ _ **super**_ _intimate and honestly, a little uncomfortable to watch. I only do that to women I'm actually dating, dude. And I'm not nearly as aggressive as Lassiter is when he's got his hands all over you."_

" _That's because you, my friend, are both a gentleman and a scholar,"_ Shawn had replied, tipping his imaginary hat in mockery.  _"But… really, Gus? Don't you think you're reaching –"_

Gus shushed him by interrupting with a slightly sarcastic tone.

" _Really, Shawn,"_ he'd insisted _. "I don't get manhandled like that. I get angry glares at best. But you? You get lingering lust-filled glances and the full-body press. It's like… it's like watching the first half of an erotically charged belly-to-belly suplex. You're Hacksaw Jim Duggan and you're giving Lassiter the wood."_

" _Okay,"_  Shawn had begrudgingly admitted, holding back a laugh. _"You may have a point. And while I appreciate you likening my dick to Hacksaw's two-by-four, or maybe Lassie's dick's the two-by-four since he's the one with the –"_

" _Shawn."_

Gus groaned out his name like it had personally offended him _._

" _Please stop."_

" _Hey, it's not my metaphor,"_ Shawn replied with an impish grin _. "You're the one who said it."_

Gus scowled, clearly kicking himself for choice of phrases. _"And I am regretting every word."_

" _Okay, but would you really want Lassie to –"_

" _No. No I wouldn't. And I'm grateful he's never given me many nasty looks either, but that's only because he's always been too busy making googly eyes at you."_

A third finger hit the air as Gus continued.

" _Did you never notice how he lets you bug him?"_

Shawn's jaw hit the floor at that one, indignant and ready to argue the point. He might concede the others, but Gus must have been smoking something silly if he thought that Lassie had ever been down to clown, the man always exuberantly exclaiming his irritation with Shawn's antics and promptly trying to eject him from his presence.

" _He does not! Lassie hates it when I annoy him. He's said so himself!"_

" _C'mon, son. We both know that's not true,"_ Gus had scoffed. _"There is a fine line between love and hate and it's always been obvious that he loves when you make him hate you. You remember your hand on his head during the Sirtis case? Or the way you dazzled and stretched your way into his lap when we were investigating those fake suicides?"_

" _Yeah. So?"_

" _Do you also remember how he didn't stop you or tell you to get off until well after the fact? Who would let a grown-ass man sit on them like that if they weren't totally into them, Shawn? Especially in the middle of their boss's office! It was either a façade or you had pushed him to his breaking point. I bet he was,"_ Gus shuddered, _"_ _ **aroused**_ _by it. You probably gave him an –"_

He stopped, then scrunched his face like the word was on the tip of his tongue and tasted like poison.

" _Well, you know,"_ he managed to get out after a moment, 'erection' refusing to pass his lips.

" _I – um,"_

Shawn had begun to protest but paused, realizing Gus was on to something but not wanting to admit that he was right. Lassie  _had_  let him crawl onto him and say his spiel. But when he'd ordered him off his lap with a clenched jaw, it had been right quick. Shawn hadn't much thought about it before, but he wouldn't be surprised if it was because the cop had been on his way to Boner City, population: them.

" _Whatever,"_ he had replied, trying to deflect _. "What else ya got?"_

" _How about the way his leg always seems to press against yours whenever you're sitting on his desk 'annoying' him?"_

A fourth finger.

" _The look on his face when he found out you slept with Leiken?"_

A fifth.

" _The fact that he let you de-tie him and talk about his chest hair when we went undercover speed-dating? Or that he bought you back your bike after the Panitch trial? And what about him standing up in a court of law in the first place, admitting you were helpful while wearing the little half-smile that you wouldn't shut up about for a week and a half afterwards?"_

Sixth, seventh and eighth in quick succession. Shawn almost felt like he was being shot at, no way to deny it or defend himself against any of what Gus had said.

Then the ninth, bomb dropped.

" _How about how he's always been the one to warn you off something dangerous, almost like he cares about you?"_

" _I – he – you –"_ Shawn blustered, flustered.

" _He cares about you, Shawn. He has for a long time. Do you really need me to go on?"_

Shawn slumped back against his chair and crossed his arms in defeat, responding with a harrumph.  _"No, I guess not."_

" _So, if I was able to figure it out from all that, there's no reason for him not to have known. Especially because you've been just as obvious as he has. He's had three years to deduce both your crush and his,"_ Gus pointed out, a fact that should have been obvious, _"and if he's taken this long to do it, that's on him, not on you. It's also not on you that he freaked out. From what you said, everything was consensual, so it's not your fault if he changed his mind after you guys did… what you did. He's a total cocksucker for trying to say otherwise."_

Shawn shot him a sad smile.

" _No, Gus. I was the cocksucker. That's the problem. You're not paying attention."_

" _Shut up, Shawn. If anything, I'm paying too much attention. And the problem is that he's wanted you for a really long time and now that he knows he can have you, he's scared. It's understandable, but that's still no excuse for what he did and if he weren't a cop, I'd be slashing his tires for how he treated you right now."_

" _You'd be out committing a crime instead of consoling me? I don't know if that's awful or awesome,"_ Shawn said, getting up and walking to the fridge for another beer. _"Either way, I'm touched. I'm Roma Downey and you're Della Reese and this may not be Wednesday night early evening programming, but it's still questionably good-quality tv."_

" _Tess was her mentor, but Monica was a celestial being, too, remember?"_ Gus sighed. _"Neither of them got touched by an angel, Shawn. They were the angels."_

" _That's not how I recall it. I remember some angels, some ladies, no clothes and lots of touching,"_ Shawn beamed, opening the bottle and taking a swig, hoping it would help wash the bitter taste from his mouth and from his mind. _"Mind you, I could be mixing it up with that skin-flick I watched last weekend."_

" _Shaaaawn…"_

" _Fine. You're right, I'm wrong. You're smart and I'm dumb. You're the attention master supreme,"_ Shawn said sarcastically, _"and I whole-heartedly apologize. You're also a big fat liar and I don't think I'm coming to you for relationship advice anymore."_

" _Good. You don't listen to me when I give it anyway. But but please listen to me when I tell you this,"_ Gus replied, his laugh tapering off to a solemn look and matching tone as he stared at Shawn disconcertingly. " _Even if Lassie thinks what you guys did was a mistake, telling you that you_ _ **were**_ _one is just low. Do you really want to be with someone who would treat you like that? It's a red flag, dude. A big ol' rainbow hued red flag."_

Shawn wished he could say Gus's warnings would have helped earlier had he given them, but he knew that wasn't the case. When he wanted something, he went after that something almost recklessly and there was nothing Gus could have done to stop him outside of tying him to his motorcycle and sending it spinning into the ocean.

And maybe not even then.

" _I'm not a liar though, Shawn,"_ Gus had said, reaching out for the last slice of pepperoni and taking a bite once he'd snagged it. Thinking for a moment, he'd swallowed, then added, _"Not unless it's really important. That's your thing. I'm done being you. It's too tiring."_

Shawn wrinkled his nose in disagreement. _"Screw that, Gus. Being me is awesome. Except for this heartbreak thing. But… I gotta know. Was there anything you said when I told you about Lassie that was true?"_

Gus had thought for a moment, taking time for deep consideration and ignoring Shawn when he started to hum the Jeopardy theme.

" _The only true thing I did say,"_ he started,  _"I still stand by – you must be out your damn mind. No, you must be out your damn mind and I think you're stupid either way. I tried to dissuade you for good reason, dude. Lassie was bad news when he tried to lock you up and he's bad news now. I'm sorry it had to turn out this way, but maybe it's for the best. I mean, better it happened now then after you went and fell in love with him, right?"_

So, Gus had known and hadn't said anything, trying to save Shawn a pain he'd wound up suffering anyway. But try as he might, he couldn't let it go – couldn't let  _Lassie_  go – and now he sat on the man's couch with a gun in his face, having been in love for a while and kind of hating himself for it. Shawn's stupid feelings were forcing him to pay the worst possible price for his efforts, because though neither had known the steps, it had been a dance between he and Lassie from the start. And Shawn had just face-planted in front of the judges, hoping to hell that he didn't earn them the lowest score and get them kicked off the show called life.

Unfortunately, instead of the foxy Carrie Ann Inaba, Shawn was stuck with Drimmer as the judge, and the dastardly detective didn't seem to be a fan of the flamboyant psychic mambo, the clean cop cha-cha, or the 'let Shawn live' lambada. Much as Drimmer said he wasn't going to be killing Shawn, the psychic had a sneaking suspicion things were a hairsbreadth away from getting bad – badder than the bad things already were – which meant that he had to sit and wait with his mouth closed, hoping Lassie would see through Drimmer's lame attempt at subterfuge and show up to save him and clear his own damn name.

His head in his hands, Shawn's fingers clutched at his no longer perfectly coifed hair as he wondered how he'd gotten himself into this mess in the first place. How he'd let his confused and misguided feelings over-ride the shred of sensibility he'd had left in his head. How the hell he'd managed to become the damsel in distress, sitting and waiting for the big strong man to come and save him.

All he needed now was a shiny crown and a pretty pink dress and he'd be Princess Peach, kickin' it in the last castle until Mario showed up and blew Bowser to smithereens on his behalf.

It would have been easier had Shawn been able to hate Lassie after that night in the pub. He'd had plenty of reason to be pissed after all, and though he was still hurt by the man's words – though he stared at the ceiling on the nights he found himself unable to sleep feeling stripped of his skin and his defenses and the thing that made his heart beat – he couldn't do it. Instead, he wrapped himself up in the tone, the pain and the rejection of Lassie's words, saddened by the fact that the man he loved could be so cold and cruel and focusing on the feelings of inadequacy that came with knowing he had thought Shawn a mistake.

And still, Shawn couldn't hate him.

Shawn wished he knew what was wrong with him, how he'd let the man get so deep under his skin. Lassie was an addiction – his very own personal affliction – and if there had been a rehab center for coming off the high of a lanky, cranky cop, Shawn would have admitted himself using Gus's credit card number right quick. Unfortunately there wasn't, so he was left trying to clean himself up using nothing but willpower and his work for the PD as a Lassidone clinic; the little hits he got from his interactions with the Head Detective reminding him why his relationship with the man had blown up in his face but also making him miss what they'd had and the possibility of what they could have been.

God, he felt like an emo drama queen, half a step away from shopping at Hot Topic and bemoaning his failed romance to anyone who would listen. If only he could Marty McFly his way back to six months ago and avoid ever daring Lassie to kiss him, erasing the act that lit the fuse on this melodramatic firework that was his life. But no matter how many times he danced the Time Warp, Shawn was never going to be able to, always stuck in the present he'd created, which didn't seem much like a present at all.

In fact, it was possibly the worst gift he'd ever given himself.

Not only that, but he was mixing his pop-culture metaphors, which was a major sign he might have a concussion, that knuckle-sandwich Drimmer had fed him having KO'd Shawn so hard he could have been mistaken for one of the weaker Street Fighter II characters.

His head hurt. His head hurt, and his heart hurt, and he had a fucking gun on him. His day unable to get any better, Shawn threw his feet up on the table, figuring he might as well kick back, relax, and wait for the hammer of the gun to drop. He wasn't talking his way out of this one any time soon, after all, and Lassie would be here any time now. For better or worse, maybe even 'til death do they part.

It didn't take long. Five minutes later, the door opened, Drimmer hidden behind it.

When Shawn saw Lassie, his knees went week, his palms sweaty. His entire body felt heavy and he was really glad he hadn't eaten any of that left-over spaghetti cause he felt sick to his stomach – vomit ready but not having yet spilled all over his ugly yellow polo.

Huh. Maybe he really was concussed.

"Spencer, get your feet off my table," Lassie snapped, looking relieved to see him. "How the hell'd you get in my place?"

Drimmer stepped out from the shadows, his presence answering the question.

Show time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the Bad Bad Thing Suite (14, 15 & 17) is dedicated to PsychLassieFan4Ever, but I dedicate this one to myself. It started as a 500 word addition to the next chapter, then blossomed into 2000 words, then 5000, then became the longest chapter in the entire story at just shy of 6000. It was one of the toughest things I've written so far, made harder by the time crunch to make sure I got it out today. It's also got the most pop culture references out of any chapter so far - thirteen total. Can you find them all?


	2. It's Only Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter takes place during season 3 episode 11: Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing  
> ** The accompanying song is It’s Only Love by Bryan Adams & Tina Turner
> 
> The thrilling conclusion to Lassie Did A Bad, Bad Thing. Carlton races to his house and finds himself in a compromising position. The case solved, the position changes, but Carlton still finds himself compromised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mixtape's playlist, go [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr); listen before, after, or during - the choice is yours, as long as you enjoy. New songs will be posted with the chapter they are attached to.
> 
> *For PsychLassieFan4Ever <3

 

* * *

Carlton sped back to his place, running through three red lights, two stop signs, and not giving a single fuck about getting pulled over for either. If some jackass threw on their cherries, he thought, well... the more the merrier, welcome to the party, it’s nice to have the accidental backup; this situation is  _fucked_.

If he  _was_  right, if the text  _had_  been because there was a gun to Shawn’s head, that meant the psychic’s life was on the line. And when weighed against that peril, the repercussions Carlton would have to face for speeding were nothing less than negligible.

He hoped to hell Spencer was on his front lawn waiting with information to share.

That it was all some big mistake; maybe the pain in the ass pulling a prank of some sort, taking the opportunity to prey on Carlton’s uncommon vulnerability.

It would be just like Shawn to fuck with him – albeit in this scenario, a much crueler version of the man – and it was odd that  _that_  was what Carlton was hoping for. Never before had he wanted to be fucked with so badly. And even odder, he was both happy and uncharacteristically willing to forgive and forget should fuckery be the case.

Dear God, how he hoped fuckery was the case.

It wasn’t.

The yard was empty; his lights on.

Spencer was nowhere to be found.

Carlton broke into a cold sweat, a sinking feeling in his chest. Shawn wasn’t there. Shawn wasn’t there and while that didn’t mean he’d broken into Carlton’s house like he had too many times before, the intuition that led him to become Head Detective left him feeling like there was nothing for them but danger ahead.

Made him think that there was nothing but heartache and sorrow on the other side of that door.

That instead of the lively and loquacious fake, he’d find a broken and bloody body lying on the floor, the wonder that was Shawn Spencer having left the building at the tip of a bullet.

 _Fuck_.

Bile rising in his throat, Carlton swallowed, fighting to steady his shaking hands and trying his damnedest not to panic. His fingers curled around his keys and, pulling them from his pocket, he steeled himself to be gutted like a fish; his stomach churning with every step as he raced across the lawn.

_Where the hell are you, Spencer?_

He just had to be okay.

He had to.

* * *

 

Carlton spotted the sullen psychic instantly, Shawn sitting on his couch with his feet kicked up – almost as if he was relaxing at the world’s worst day spa. Had he been a crying kind of man, the Head Detective might have wept with joy. Might have even laughed while doing so. Instead, he entered the room chastising, overcome with emotion and unable to process it, his  _‘thank god you’re alive’_  and ‘ _I can’t begin to tell you how worried I was’_ coming out as a snappish ‘Spencer, get your feet off my table!’ and ‘How the hell’d you get in my place?’.

It didn’t matter how he’d managed, though.

Shawn was alive, and Shawn was safe. He wasn’t dead or hurt or dying, which meant his kissable,  _insufferable_  mouth was likely to start flapping at any moment – knowing Spencer, probably about something stupid. And for once, Carlton couldn’t wait. Right then, he needed to hear the man’s voice – needed to hear him say something stupid, something senseless and trivial and inane – to make sure that he was okay. To make sure he was still  _Shawn_. Important things like locked doors and boundaries and rules about where feet should and should not be could be saved for later.

But his excitement at finding the fake in one piece blinded him to the fact that they weren’t alone. To the fact that there was a dastardly asshole hiding behind the door with a deadly weapon in his hands. Shawn’s face had been a distraction, the look on it more so, and thanking god his fears hadn’t been made reality, Carlton made a rookie mistake in failing to clear the room before he lowered his guard. It was because he’d allowed his emotions to override his strong sense of logic that Drimmer was able to get the drop on him.

The man stepped out in the open, a gun shoved in Carlton’s face.

Not just any gun. One of  _his_  guns, lifted from evidence by Drimmer’s ink-stained sticky fingers – the one from his nightstand, by the looks of it. His personal favorite, it just made him hate the man more.

“I can’t believe you thought that text was from me.”

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Shawn began to bitch.

Carlton just stared, the inanity the psychic had chosen to respond with surprising. The claptrap usually annoyed him, but if he hadn’t been trying to wrap his mind around how Shawn thought a lack of smiley face was more important than a crooked cop, it would have been music to Carlton’s ears. He hadn’t believed for a second that it had been the psychic texting him, of course, and he wondered how his barging in with gun drawn hadn’t alerted Shawn to that – wondered and worried that the usually perceptive man was so much less observant than he was every other day.

Perhaps Spencer was concussed or stalling for time.

Perhaps he was playing dumb, or his priorities were just that skewed.

He didn’t know, but he also couldn’t much care, too busy focusing on the jackass with the gun.

If there was one thing he hated above all else, it was a dirty cop. Dirty cops made them  _all_  look bad. They took the motto of ‘to serve and protect’ and twisted it, applying the words to only themselves and endangering the whole of society in the process. Carlton hadn’t liked it when someone colored outside the lines in kindergarten and he certainly didn’t approve of someone in a position of power trying now, especially using innocent lives instead of crappy crayons to scribble all over the police code of ethics.

That’s why it was with much glee that he called the man a low-life scum-sucking bastard.

The rage he felt at Drimmer’s betrayal made it easy to forget about his feelings of defeat and despair. To forget how low he’d been and how his head had spun. To forget all about the anxiety he’d had. And it was in that moment of clarity he realized his recent problems hadn't been his own fault at all. They’d all been thanks to this dirty-dealing douche-bag in front of him.

Screw him and his fake suicide plan.

Carlton’s gaze hardened to steel. Cringing, he watched the pistol smash against the side of Shawn’s skull, powerless to stop it and sickened by the sound of metal meeting flesh. The sound of his foe’s voice faded in the background as his fear for Shawn’s safety took over. Drimmer’s tone became nothingness, a buzzing in his ears as his focus sharpened on the psychic clutching his head in pain.

He wanted to reach out to comfort him but knew that he couldn’t.

Wanted to somehow make this all okay.

Make everything all okay.

But he  _couldn’t._

Just one more thing he wanted Drimmer dead for.

Perhaps even more insufferable than Spencer was, Drimmer continued, spinning a story of former lovers and a relationship gone wrong; a murder-suicide written in the stars.

There was no way anyone would believe it, of course; not when they’d been careful to keep their failed relationship from the prying ears of their colleagues or if you considered who both men really were and how unlikely Carlton was to kill himself even  _if_  he occasionally threatened to murder Shawn. But Carlton stumbled when he heard the speech, nonetheless.

It was a deflection, he knew. A ruse to throw off the authorities and to throw him off as well, but…

The best lies began with a grain of truth. He’d been taught that years ago in the academy, and it had never left him. So what had Drimmer seen? More importantly, how did he know enough to rile him this way?

The fact that  _this_  was the story he’d chosen was a little more than disconcerting and had it been any other time, Carlton would have considered it further. But Shawn protested, an agonized exclamation as he curled up on the end of Carlton's couch escaping his lips, the man becoming yet again the perfect distraction.

“Former lovers? Really?!”

The vehemence with which the psychic spoke was shocking.

Maybe Spencer was more pissed than he had been letting on.

Maybe, while Carlton had been lamenting and questioning how to get back into Shawn’s good graces, Shawn had been hiding thinly veiled contempt. 

Maybe he was as upset as he deserved to be and after this his would tell Carlton to ‘suck it’ like the cop had expected he would from the start.

But none of that mattered either. It couldn’t.

Nothing could, not with the three of them tangled together in this twisted mess of a hostage situation.

Nothing would until it was over. Then everything would matter.

Everything would matter in a way it hadn’t ever mattered before.

“It's called misinformation; he's hoping they won't look too closely,” he replied, trying to keep his voice steady. To keep both Shawn and Drimmer calm and de-escalate the situation, even though he felt like doing the exact opposite.

He wanted to shoot Drimmer, then. Put a bullet right between his eyes and then kick him with his wing-tipped shoes while he was dying.

Carlton had been rendered powerless because of this man, due to the actions of this traitor to the badge. His career, his reputation, his self-esteem – they had all been negatively affected by the dastardly deeds of the dirty detective standing in front of him. He wanted nothing more than to make him pay and had he been a lesser man, vengeance would have been enacted.

Had he been a lesser man, he wouldn’t just be picturing murder, he’d be committing it.

Instead –

“You are one sick twist, Drimmer,” Carlton sneered.

Clearly proud of himself, Drimmer smiled and turned to point the gun at Shawn.

“I know,” he said.

Shawn sat up suddenly, hand flying to his head. Objecting, he looked at Carlton with desperation in his eyes, insisting that his psychic powers were taking over. Carlton looked back, equally desperate but trying not to show it.

He had trusted Spencer, and now Spencer was trusting him.

“I’m getting something. Sensing something. Something wild.  _Something_ in The Way You Look Tonight. Deep Blue  _something_  -” the psychic stuttered.

Shifting backwards, Carlton frowned. It was just a fraction that he moved. Then, once the crooked cop turned his attention on Shawn just like he had planned, a fraction more.

“Do you ever stop talking?!”

No. No, Shawn never did. Carlton had once thought it the worst thing about the man, but now – now he was coming to realize his words weren’t just there to fill space. It wasn’t just a deflection. They weren’t just to annoy. Talking was Spencer’s god-damn  _superpower_  and he was never more glad for it.

Carlton dashed into his kitchen at the turn of Drimmer’s head.

His instincts taking over, he reached for the gun stashed in his breadbox, face falling when he found it empty. Of course it was empty. It was one of the five his co-workers had managed to find when they’d gone through his place. There were three more in the house he doubted had been bagged and tagged, but as Drimmer taunted him with the knowledge of his missing weaponry, he realized he was never going to make it to his hi-fi or his shower to grab them. Instead, he had to hope to hell the one stashed on the counter was still there.

For a moment – a serious, glorious moment – Carlton debated throwing the metal container at the man's head instead, just to prove he didn’t need a firearm to take the fucker down.

 _Enough. Just… enough!_  he thought, stalking towards the center island where he knew victory lay in the most unsuspecting of places.  _Amateur hour is over._

“Hey. Hey, stop it. What are you doing?”

_This is my house._

He moved forward gracefully, as if there wasn’t a weapon pointed at Shawn’s head. As if he didn’t have the weight of the world – his world  _and_  Shawn’s – on his shoulders.

Y _ou took my job._

Carlton took a step.

_You took my partner._

“Stop that. Back off!”

Then another.

 _You took everything from me,_ he seethed.

This was going to end. Right here, right now.

A bullet in someone’s body, regardless of whose it was.

He was tired of being a fucking victim.

No more. No  _fucking_  more.

_Like hell you’re taking this, too._

Carlton could kill the man. Could legally get away with it, the current situation making it as permissible as it could be. It would make selling the house harder when the time came, of course. Make getting promoted to Chief of Police tougher, too. And, he supposed, it would eventually weigh on his conscience, though in that moment he couldn’t care less.

He would care eventually though, so he worked to keep his blaze of righteous indignation at a dull roar, his frustrations burning bright behind his gaze.

“Stop tha-” Drimmer began, realizing too late that he had something to be afraid of.

The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. Carlton did not ‘stop that’ but continued on, focused on putting an end to the drama. Focused on saving Shawn and himself and putting this scumbag away. Focused on doing everything he could to survive ‘til tomorrow.

And the tomorrow after that.

And the one after that.

Seeing the grim determination on Carlton’s face, Shawn pounced at Drimmer's wrist and grabbed at the man with both hands, pushing the pistol upwards and out of the way.

Carlton knew this was his chance to act – maybe his only chance – and plunged his hand into the decorative bowl of pistachios on the counter, retrieving his Colt Mustang. Like the hero cowboy in one of his ol’ western films, he aimed one-handed, the bullet leaving the chamber and piercing Drimmer through the left shoulder. As the dirty detective dropped to the floor, Spencer wrestled the gun from his grip, bounding over some furniture and touching Carlton’s arm as he passed it over, mere moments before backup burst through the door.

The touch caused a fluttering feeling in his chest and Carlton did his best to ignore it, choosing to nod at O’Hara instead, amused by the impressed look on her face. Obviously proud he had the situation under control, she surveyed the scene, and his adrenaline raced as he breathed deep, focusing on the fact that Spencer Sr. and Guster flanked her to calm himself. Unsteady though the psychic may be, the men looked equally shocked and relieved to see Shawn on his feet, and Carlton felt himself relax, knowing that things were finally going to be okay.

 _Maybe I don't have to worry so much after all_ …

He tucked one of the pistols away, wondering how the hell he had ever gotten low enough to question her loyalty in the first place. The blonde dropped her weapon and smiled, her face as smug as he felt, the look worth more than a thousand words and making him feel better than he had in a long while. But quickly, Shawn begin to sway, the man likely concussed and unaware of it.

Carlton's brow furrowed at the sight, his worry for the man flaring back up.

“Hi-fi? Lassie, you were so cool a second ago,” the psychic said, voice laden in affectionate disappointment. He tottered backward, caught by his father as the man kept him upright.

_Not cool?_

Carlton ejected the bullet casing from the Barretta, catching it with ease. He turned his head to shoot an insouciant glare at the psychic, then smiled at the dumbstruck man standing before him.

_Not cool my ass._

* * *

 

Carlton had been up half the night trying to figure out how to have a conversation with Spencer.

Not a conversation,  _the_ conversation.

Well, maybe not  _the_  conversation, because he still had no idea what he felt – not really. Or at least, not to the extent that let him feel comfortable talking about it. All he  _did_  know was that he had to thank the man somehow. And while that didn't necessarily mean that he needed to act on whatever feelings he  _did_  have, he could no longer admit that they weren't there.

In the end, Carlton decided he wouldn't have the conversation at all.

His world had been shaken to its core the last few days and he’d be willing to give almost anything to get his life back on track, including actually showing his emotions if that’s what it took. Which is why, unable to sleep with so much on his mind, he hoped to get the encounter over and done with sooner rather than later.

Even though he had just requisitioned time off, the detective turned up at work the next day anyway. The comings and goings at the SBPD being the psychic's favorite daytime drama, Spencer would be there – without a shadow of a doubt, Carlton knew this – the pretty pest likely to be found hovering around O'Hara like a vulture circling its prey.  He planned on using that to his advantage, looking to find a way to move forward from the limbo they’d been in, hopefully in the easiest way possible.

Carlton showed up in a suit just like always, and, just like always, scowled at those who looked like they were dumb enough to lob questions his way. Not planning on staying longer than it took to get debriefed, he hadn’t grabbed his usual coffee and scant seconds after leaving Vick’s office, Spencer and Guster sauntered into the station. Not even slightly shocked by the development, he couldn’t have timed it more perfectly if he’d tried.

“Hellllllllo, Lassie!”

Happy to see Spencer for once, Carlton looked up, stifling a smile as he tried to look surprised by their presence, the warm drawl of his name from the psychic’s lips making him feel kind of fuzzy inside.

He'd done a lot of thinking over the last few days –

Thinking of their highs and lows.

The kisses shared.

The accusations and affection and affirmations between them.

The way Shawn had stepped up for him and the things he’d learned about not just the man he was but the man he wanted to be – all the important thoughts he’d been trying so hard to avoid.

And at the conclusion of these thoughts, he had finally given himself permission to enjoy the man's company. But only every once in a while.

Oblivious to Carlton’s thoughts, Spencer continued, Guster standing at his side.

“How's our favorite exonerated-murderer-slash-dirty-cop-catcher doing?” Shawn teased almost lovingly.

Unable to help himself, Carlton let his smile slip free.

He didn’t know how pissed the psychic was, how much of his reaction to Drimmer had been an act, or even if they had anything more than a chance at a working future between them. But he did have great appreciation for everything Psych had done for him, and he told them so, his eyes locked on Shawn the whole time.

The moment stretched. A second that felt like forever when he realized how open he’d just been, he did what he did best to distract from that uncomfortable feeling: deflected.

“But, look – I do have something for you,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out two envelopes. Surprised, the duo grinned and Carlton couldn’t help but savor the unwarranted excitement. “More of a token, really.”

He beamed when their faces fell, Guster pulling out the coupon with a flat, clearly unimpressed look on his face.

“Free chips with any sandwich purchased at Hal’s Hoagies.”

Far too proud of himself, Carlton glanced at Shawn, reveling in the man’s reaction.

They wouldn’t be them if they didn’t fuck with each other, after all, even in trying or heartfelt times.  _Especially_  in trying or heartfelt times.

This – this coupon and compliment and fucked up version of a heartfelt thank you – would hopefully remind Shawn of that. Hopefully remind him that after all was said and done, he was still Shawn Spencer and Carlton was still Carlton Lassiter and there would never be a day when they didn’t have this weird, messed up, competitive, emotionally charged kind of comradery between them.

They might yell and fight, they might save each other’s asses, they might even one day kiss and make up; Carlton had no clue. But the one thing he  _could_  guarantee was that they would always piss each other off. More importantly, they would enjoy doing so. It was the backbone of their relationship – had been since the beginning, as a matter of fact – and regardless of what that relationship was to become, Carlton wouldn’t change it for the world.

Turning away, he remembered the check in his jacket pocket, the cherry on top of this deliciously awkward interaction sundae. He looked back at the Psych team and, taking them by surprise, opened his mouth again, the words he spoke the best they’d heard all day.

“Oh, hey, I do have something else for you.” He snapped the crisp paper in front of Shawn, who gasped as his gaze followed the money Carlton held in hand. “I got the Chief to finally sign your check.”

“Sweet!” Guster exclaimed, snatching it from the detective before his best friend had a chance.

Carlton nodded his head at Shawn, his smile gentle, a softer look in his eyes than usual. He didn’t know what was going to come next – wasn’t sure he  _wanted_  to know what was going to come next – but he was positive it was going to be better than the last few weeks had been and that was good enough for him. He had his job back, he had his partner back, and he was starting to make sense of the mess that was in his head. He couldn’t change what the world threw at him, nor could he change how horrible he had been, but he  _could_  make strides toward the future and toward being a Carlton Lassiter he was comfortable with. Maybe for the first time in his entire life.

“Catch you later,” he said to the psychic as he turned to leave, the sense of lightness and lilt of hope in his voice unable to be hidden.

For once, Shawn just stared, obviously noting it but unable to comment, the reaction clearly unexpected.

Because Carlton had said it before, of course.

But this time he meant every word.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has gotten a tad chaotic, so S3MXT is going on hiatus til Christmas.


	3. Wicked Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter takes place during season 3 episode 12: Earth, Wind and... Wait For It  
> ** The accompanying song is Wicked Game by Chris Isaak
> 
> An explosion rocks Carlton's world and knocks some sense into him. After things turn out not to be what they seem, he takes the first step in making amends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mixtape's playlist, go [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr); listen before, after, or during - the choice is yours, as long as you enjoy. New songs will be posted with the chapter they are attached to.

* * *

The building exploded.

The building exploded, and Carlton's knees went out from under him, and it felt like he was drowning, suffocating in his own sorrow.

His head throbbed.

His ears rang.

He struggled to breathe.

Every cell in his body screamed for oxygen because in his worry over Spencer, he had forgotten he needed it to survive.

Carlton had just assured O'Hara on the ride over that Shawn would be fine. He said he would be fine, but when she shot him an odd look for it, Carlton knew she'd noticed his slip. And while it was quickly forgotten upon their arrival, the worst distraction possible raining down around them, he found himself willing to give anything to have to explain his use of Spencer's name, if only because it would mean that the man was somehow still alive.

Shawn was practically indestructible, he had told her.

He had to be fine, he had said.

And yet…

The heat from the explosion singed Carlton's skin; squinting, he threw his arm over his face to protect his eyes. Debris fell from the sky, projected through the air as the monstrous flames burst outward, enveloping the building in a deadly heat.

The fire crackled, embers sparking off into the atmosphere as the building's wooden beams splintered and scorched and screeched, burning with what felt like the intensity of a thousand suns.

Well, that was it then.

Spencer was dead.

Spencer was dead, and the hopes and dreams Carlton had never even realized he had died with him.

Ready to use the smoke as an excuse for why his eyes were rimmed red, Carlton blinked back the tears threatening to spill and forced himself to remain stoic. Forced himself to avoid acknowledging Spencer's untimely demise. He couldn't break down here. Not now, not like this. But his soul felt like it was being torn asunder, something he couldn't let anybody know – not even his partner.

Not when he struggled to process it, himself.

Carlton was dumbstruck.

Gobsmacked.

Astounded.

He choked on the air, thick and cloying around them, and grabbed O'Hara's arm for balance, needing to steady himself. To  _ground_  himself. Anything to balance his shaken emotions. In that moment – that long, painful,  _agonizing_  moment – he and O'Hara were the only two left in the world. And, connected by a heart-wrenching agony, their legs shook as they took in the sight before them.

Time had frozen; sights and sounds and smells rushed around him, yet Carlton was still, his heart fracturing into a thousand pieces in the slowest of motions.

He stared.

His heart broke, and he stared.

Hoping it was a sick joke, he stared.

The world wasn't cruel enough to rip Shawn away, was it?

Not now.

Not like  _this_.

No. No, it couldn't be.

Smoke billowed from the decimated building as the cop gawked. And though seemingly impossible, after a second that seemed like eternity, Carlton thought he saw a shadow of a man in the distance through the door.

_No._

_No way._

_No_ _**fucking** _ _way._

* * *

It had been a long day.

Not only did Carlton feel it deep in his bones, but it showed; broken heart written all over his face, it cast a pallor upon the cop that made him look as sick as he felt.

O'Hara had taken a single glance at his wan and worn complexion before reassuring him that she could post a guard on Johnson's hospital room alone, allowing him to wander off to wherever he needed to be to collect himself.

 _Ordering_ him to wander off to wherever he needed to be to collect himself.

Were they dealing with normal circumstances, Carlton never would have left her, his ego and rank as Commanding Officer overriding her abilities and insistence. But this was the farthest thing from normal they'd dealt with in a long time – Spencer's near annihilation shaking him to the core – so off he went, letting her call the shots as she pleased while he shuffled aimlessly away from the scene.

He couldn't remember agreeing to go.

Couldn't recall his departure, either.

But he had done both and that more than anything let Carlton know how badly the explosion had fucked him up.

Meandering away, he sighed, and as he passed the Blueberry by, he gave the vehicle a melancholic glance – the car just one more thing that triggered memories of the fear he felt when he saw the explosion.

The explosion didn't matter, though.

The boys were okay. That was the important thing.

 _Shawn_  was okay.

And he was glad of it. But he was also fully unable to process the hell he felt inside when he thought the opposite true, echoes of those emotions both lingering and strangling.

Carlton felt half-ready to laugh or cry or maybe punch Spencer in the head for the stress caused by his unnecessary heroics, the cop entirely incapable of dealing with people in his current state. Instead, he leaned against the wall of a building near the one that had become a burnt-out shell of itself, glad he'd been gifted the opportunity to sort himself out.

Step one was burying his head in his hands as he tried to shut out the sounds of reality around him. Technically part of the active crime scene, the wall he leaned against should have been off-limits, but Carlton didn't care. It wasn't a priority space and with the damage done at the main location it would be hours before someone wandered this way. So, screw anyone who tried to get him to move.

Step two?

Well, so tired he almost couldn't think straight, Carlton hadn't gotten that far.

It wasn't just that he was tired, though – he was weary. Worn down and exhausted from the thoughts he'd been inundated with, he sank slowly into the grass, recalling his desperate deflection in Dr. Foster's office as he rested on his haunches amongst the rocks and reeds. It was amazing to see how far he had come in such a short amount of time – but, he supposed, it was probably because life had forced introspection he was unlikely to have pursued otherwise.

Carlton didn't care, though. The work as hard as it had been, he was claiming credit anyway.

Taking a deep breath, he tried and failed to steady himself.

Twenty minutes had passed since the blast, yet his pulse still raced, adrenaline surging through him like electricity.

It wasn't because of the fire, he knew.

Shawn was dead.

Shawn  _wasn't_  dead.

He was a husk of a man, a blackened corpse lying broken on the cold hard ground while the building burned around him.

He was a hero, a man invincible as he not only somehow withstood the blast and smoke inhalation but managed to rescue the damsel in distress, all the while barely breaking a sweat.

Though it seemed ridiculous, the latter was true. Yet Carlton's brain just couldn't shake the alternate reality he had briefly lived in. He tried to think of something else,  _anything_   _else_ , but somehow always wound up accidentally playing Six Degrees of Shawn Spencer, his thoughts and fears and feelings blurring across the back of his closed lids.

 _Don't be a deep-fried jelly donut, Lassie! How can you not know why you kissed somebody?_  Shawn exclaimed in Carlton's car, prodding him into uncomfortable conversational territory.

Spencer dropping to his knees in the bar, asking him if he was sure, not wanting to pressure him into something he would regret.

Him agreeing, then regretting it anyway.

He had been such a bastard.

Shawn had wanted to make sure he wasn't taking advantage and Carlton had wound up taking advantage of him instead.

He remembered how he'd first dragged Shawn through a darkened doorway at the station, tossing him up against a wall, seething.

How Shawn had responded cockily.

_Are you chicken, Lassie?_

How the psychic's mouth had tasted when he'd proven he wasn't.

Images flashed past him with increasing speed, as if it had been his own life endangered. Memories mixed and mingled, the reality of the situation bleeding into his brain. Overwhelming him in his solitude.

He shook. And for once letting his feelings overtake his sense of self control, Carlton finally cracked.

Carlton finally cracked.

And he wept.

* * *

The detective had absolutely no desire to open his eyes. He knew his refusal came across as petulant but doing so would force him to acknowledge the presence of his unwelcome company and well… he just didn't wanna.

Carlton had no clue how he'd been snuck up on nor how he hadn't heard the crunch of the gravel underfoot, but he chastised himself for not noticing nonetheless, his solemn reverie no excuse for his distraction. He wasn't sure how long he had been alone for, but since the shadow cast over him indicated the individual had no intention of leaving any time soon, he figured his solitude was over regardless of whether he looked or not.

Face still covered by fingers, his lashes fluttered open a fraction – just enough for him to find himself staring at Spencer's cloth-clad crotch, the man standing a mere foot away and looking down at the detective curiously.

_Of course, it's Spencer._

He blinked.

_How could I not have known?_

"Lassie?" Shawn asked, tentative as he noticed Carlton's melancholy. "What's wrong, buddy?"

Carlton inhaled deeply, the smell of burnt gasoline assaulting his senses.

_Perfect. How the hell does he always find me when I want to be found least?_

Okay, so he hadn't tried too hard to hide this time around. But he  _had_  hoped the distance (and his clearly closed off body language) would deflect companionship instead of inviting it.  _He_ never would have approached someone in his state.

Carlton should have known better than to expect Shawn would care about his giant red flags, though. Spencer didn't take cues. Or hints. Or abject objections, after all.

Conceding, the cop lowered his hands and looked back, defeated.

"What do you want, Spencer?" he groaned.

"Dude, why has you the grumps? Everything's fine! Nobody died; I saved the girl! What's the deal?"

Flabbergasted, Carlton simply stared, unable to fathom how the psychic didn't see the problem. Shawn was usually such a perceptive son of a bitch –  _psychically_  perceptive, he would argue, at which Carlton would argue back, of course – so it was absolutely mind-boggling that he hadn't picked up on what was happening.

"Wha- What's the problem?" he said, laughing in disbelief as he pushed himself to his feet, leaning unsteadily against the wall behind him. "You've got to be kidding me."

Shawn raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the detective towering over him.

"What's going on with you, Lassie?" he asked, concerned.

Carlton laughed again, distress bubbling just beneath the surface.

"What's going on? I thought you fucking died, Spencer!"

Shawn lost his serious look, a quick grin replacing his worry. "Oh, that? That's no big deal, Lassie. That happens like... every other Friday."

Carlton sputtered. Completely taken aback by the psychic's nonchalance over his own mortality, he couldn't understand how the other man didn't get it yet – how he hadn't grasped the enormity of the situation, the enormity of Carlton's feelings. So steeling himself to do something stupid to change that fact, he cocked his head, a near-manic shine in his eyes.

"I thought you fucking  _ **died**_ , Spencer," he said again, slower this time, his voice steady though his body began to imperceptibly shake.

Spencer opened his mouth to speak.

Carlton silenced him, a raised finger pressed against the psychic's lips.

He needed to keep going, couldn't let the man interrupt, nerve finally gathered enough to bare his heart – a thing far more frightening than any explosion or gunfight or stand-off he'd ever been in. He was Head Detective and, except for when it came to his feelings (which kicked his ass like a rowdy roustabout high on the fumes of too many beers and a bad decision under his belt), he prided himself on having his fear under lock and key. But fear was why he hadn't ever been this open with his ex-wife. And maybe, he realized as the honestly flowed from his mouth, that was part of the reason why his marriage had failed.

But Shawn  _wasn't_  Victoria. And that was a good thing.

It meant maybe he could change.

Maybe they could work.

Maybe it would all be worth it.

"I can't believe how terrified I was," he continued.

The words echoed the ones Shawn had once said to him and Shawn swallowed, shivering when the cop took a step forward to invade his personal space.

"What does this have to do with why you're up against a wall by the car, Lass?"

Carlton smiled, his eyes a little sad.

"You were right, Spencer. Life is fleeting, and I need to live it," he said, moving his hand to caress the side of the psychic's face. To touch the thing he'd thrown away out of fear and doubt and confusion – not the man but what he represented: love and hope and freedom, all things Carlton needed and realized he'd never had.

All things Shawn had offered, and Carlton hoped he would offer yet again.

Shawn took a step back and stumbled.

Carlton reached out and caught him by the arm to steady him.

"What are you doing, Lassie?" the man asked, the look on his face questioning as he stared at the hand wrapped around his bicep.

Carlton looked at Shawn intently. Brushed a strand of hair off the psychic's face, excitement and terror burning bright in his eyes.

It was now or never. And if it was never, he might as well just throw himself off a bridge, no other way available to deal with the way he felt.

"Saying the things I'm feeling."

His hand drifted, fingers pushed through the man's lush brown hair. Shawn stifled a gasp and leaned into his touch, haunted hazel eyes closing with a moan as the detective brought them closer together.

Heart soaring, Carlton registered Shawn's response.

His pulse raced – harder, faster,  _louder_  – and he felt a little light-headed, like he could drift away on a gentle breeze. But he continued, words he should have spoken long ago tumbling from his lips. Words he once heard from the lips he wanted to capture with his own. Lips he had kissed thrice before and wanted to kiss so very many times more.

"Acting on those feelings before it's too late."

Shawn bit his lip and tilted his head upwards, face almost nuzzling against the detective's.

"Is there a problem with that?" Carlton asked, mouth pressed feather-light against the psychic's as he spoke.

Shawn whimpered, nose skimming across Carlton's jaw in response.

"Didn't think so."

* * *

Carlton licked at Shawn's lower lip.

The taste of the other man's skin exciting him, he did it again, allowing the moment to sear itself into his memory. The feel of the psychic beneath him was pure bliss; the way his mouth moved and body pressed. The thump of his heartbeat against Carlton's chest. The promise that was spoken in the gentleness of their kiss.

Shawn moaned, his body bowing inwards for but a second before -

"Lassie… wait."

The psychic began to speak.

Carlton forgot to breathe.

His stomach twisted at the interruption.

But wait didn't mean stop, and the lack of  _stop_  gave him a sliver of hope.

Still -

"Lassie…"

Shawn repeated himself and the detective blinked, the sound unfamiliar – almost distorted by his desire and worry that this was going to blow up in his face worse than the gasoline-soaked building had.

"What are we doing? What is this?"

A lump formed in Carlton's throat.

He swallowed; nerves trying to kick in, he fought them, determined to take control of his own life for once, reason be damned.

"I'm getting out of my own way, Spencer. Isn't that what you wanted?"

It was. And hopefully still would be, though Carlton couldn't wait for an answer. So, he leaned in to kiss the man again, a sure-fire way to quell his anxiety. But instead of mouths colliding, Shawn turned his head and Carlton caught the corner of his pressed-together lips instead.

The psychic stepped back, his hand on Carlton's chest to stop him.

"I thought that you didn't want anything to do with me," he said, eyes cloudy, struggling to keep his lust in check. He continued, clearly a little bitter. "Didn't you say you were done with me,  _Carlton_? Aren't I just a mistake?"

At the sound of his name so fraught with disappointment, Carlton let out a breath he hadn't know he'd been holding – Shawn's uncharacteristic reluctance finally making sense as his own cruel words came back to haunt him in the worst possible way.

_You're disgusting._

Lies.

_You're crude_

More lies.

_and rude_

Lies again.

_and_

He wished he'd never said them.

_the fact_

That he'd never lashed out.

_that I let you_

Hurt Shawn this way.

_do that to me_

Been so scared.

_makes me sick._

Lies.

All words building a world of untruths.

Carlton felt gut-punched, his guilt intensifying when he realized it was nothing compared to how Shawn must have felt.

How he had  _made_  Shawn feel.

 _Get your whore lips off me!_  he had said.

_Get your whore lips off me!_

and

_It was a mistake._

and

_I don't want to be together with you._

But he  _did_  want to be together with him, regardless of what he had said in the past. He  _desperately_  wanted to be together with him – the explosion making him realize how intensely he required the other man in his life. And the only mistake he had made was taking so long to figure it out, unnecessarily tearing Shawn apart in the process.

Carlton didn't deserve forgiveness, he knew. But he hoped to God the psychic was willing to give it.

Would do anything for it.

Would beg for it, if he had to.

Because what use was shame if it prevented you from experiencing your heart's deepest desire?

"I was wrong. I was  _so_  wrong," he said, raising his hand to place it over Shawn's. "There aren't words to express how wrong I was. And I'm sorry."

The psychic's stance softened just a little and Carlton took it as an opportunity to touch him again, his other hand reaching out to caress the side of Shawn's face. Shawn inhaled sharply at the motion and the detective decided then – decided  _impulsively_  – to finally take a chance.

Shooting a look to the left, he quickly determined those at the active site were much too busy to notice anything other than themselves –

_Perfect._

– and gaze filled with as much affection as he could muster, Carlton gripped the hand on his chest and stepped back, forcing Shawn to step with him.

"Let me prove how sorry I am," he said, tugging gently. " _Please_."

Shawn pulled his hand away, uncertain.

"Lassie..." he drawled.

Refusing to allow room for argument, Carlton turned on his heel in one quick motion, moving the three steps it took to place him in front of the half-open warehouse door in the blink of an eye. He'd never felt as nervous as he did right then, but sure the man would be too curious not to follow, paused just long enough to give Shawn a lingering glance before ducking underneath.

How could Spencer  _not_  be curious, after all? He was like the cat in the old adage – too damn nosy for his own damn good.

Carlton breathed. And he stood in the dimly lit room, heart thudding in his chest as he waited in what felt like maddening silence, a wry smile on his face as finally he broke it.

"Coming?" he asked the empty room, knowing his voice would carry his message to the ears that needed to hear it.

A moment later, casual runners coated in ash from the smoke, Shawn's shoes shuffled up the to the door. Seeing them approach, Carlton's grin widened, that sliver of hope housed within his chest growing into something so much more.

Something tangible.

A flutter of feeling made profoundly corporeal.

He was there, and Carlton was here, and that could mean anything.

Even the world.

"Lassie, I want answers," Shawn said, upper body hidden behind the entrance as he spoke. Although it was strong, his voice was uncertain and, having never heard the psychic sound this way before – wary and tentative and intrigued and warm – Carlton knew this was likely the fresh start he'd been crossing his fingers for.

Shawn was  _intrigued_ , and that more than anything was Carlton's saving grace.

"I absolutely refuse to come unless you give them to me."

He chuckled at Shawn's choice of words, hoping coming would be somewhere in their future sometime soon.

Hoping Shawn would come into the warehouse and back into his life in all the ways he so desperately wanted.

So desperately  _needed._

"Absolutely, Spencer," he replied, face glowing as he responded to the man's accidental entendre. "Anything you want."

And he meant it.

He would do anything, he realized, if only given the chance.

And for him, that was huge.

"Anything at all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, folks! So sorry for the delay, but life got in the way. No idea when the next chapter will be posted, but good things come to those who wait. Promise!


	4. Can’t Fight This Feeling/I Think We’re Alone Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter takes place after season 3 episode 12: Earth, Wind and... Wait For It  
> ** The accompanying songs are Can’t Fight This Feeling by REO Speedwagon & I Think We’re Alone Now by Tiffany
> 
> Shawn follows Carlton into the warehouse and gets his long awaited apology. 
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mixtape's playlist, go [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr); listen before, after, or during - the choice is yours, as long as you enjoy. New songs will be posted with the chapter they are attached to.

 

* * *

Carlton couldn't help himself; in the few moments since he’d last touched Shawn, he’d been hit with an overwhelming sense of emptiness. He didn't know why, didn’t understand the ache he felt deep down inside, but at this point, he also didn’t much care, deciding then and there that he was through over-analyzing things. At least for now, when there was something much more important at hand - like the super sexy psychic in front of him, clearly in need of reassurance.

So he pulled Spencer to him and kissed the man intently.

Softly. 

Gently.

Long and languid, lips connected. And needing to be in their natural state - Spencer pressed up against a wall, pinned there by his body and his stare and his fear and his desire – Carlton turned so it was Shawn’s back against the wall instead of his own.

He couldn’t say why, but he needed to feel their chests pressed flush together. Needed to feel their hearts beat against one another - violent, passionate, furious, _ferocious,_ fighting for their lives like two rats in a cage.

He needed to see Shawn’s face blush as he towered over the man; see the way he affected the psychic and the way the psychic affected him.

It was their version of normal. And now more than ever, Carlton needed normal, needed it to ground himself; Spencer’s acquiescence - his sycophantic smirk and the way his body carted into the not-quite embrace and how his skin felt beneath Carlton’s touch, pulse racing at the soft dusting of the cop’s wandering fingertips - calming his mind even as it made his blood surge.

Carlton’s head felt full of helium, and the shock he felt when he’d thought Shawn dead had proven to be his breaking point, the thing that illuminated the fact that whatever was between them went deeper than two randy men playing at being lusty teenagers. Not that Carlton didn't like playing, of course. But even if he tried, he could no longer deny that it was the precursor to something _more_. Maybe even that feeling of love he had questioned while stealing pudding in the Psych office just a week prior.

It was a thought that shook him to the core. But in the second he’d considered Shawn gone - that single heart-shattering moment in which Shawn was dead, dirt, dust in the wind, never to be seen or heard or yelled at, never to be loved again – Carlton’s whole world had been ripped away, the simple act of destruction making him yearn to join the man in oblivion.

Here he had been with someone who would give him anything – literally _anything_ ; love, affection, acknowledgement, challenge, a chase, a place, a really good reason to wake up in the morning – and he had rebuffed his advances because he was stupid and brainwashed and scared.

 _Scared_ , and letting that be the driving factor in his decisions.

That wasn’t the man Carlton wanted to be.

It wasn’t the man he _was_.

And both he and the man he hoped would soon become his lover deserved so, _so_ much better.

Carlton found Shawn’s hands with his own, laced their fingers together, and leaning in, broke the kiss, his lips brushing against the tender flesh below the psychic’s earlobe. And, as he pressed his body forward to meld them together, leg slipping between Spencer’s to force the psychic’s apart, Shawn moaned in response.

The sound shot sparks of heat into Carlton’s groin, racing spitfire quick through his veins.

“God, Spencer,” he started, voice whisper-thin but loaded with emotion; gravelly and deep, like thunder in the far-off distance. Hearing the rumble escape his own throat, he knew it was the most honest he’d ever allowed himself to be. And though it should have scared him, instead it egged him on, making him realize how real his feelings really were. “When I thought you were dead…”

He didn’t expect it, but something shifted between them, and in that moment Spencer’s skin turned to gooseflesh in his hands. He couldn’t put his finger on it but Carlton _felt_ something shift between them – something he didn’t have words for and couldn’t comprehend, Shawn shivering as the words washed over him.

It was magic, _palpable_ magic, and Carlton could almost taste it on the tip of his tongue before he was interrupted.

“Lassie, wait. Stop.”

Shawn protested, words turning into a moan when the detective slipped his fingers free to dance along collarbone, soft but slightly calloused digits skirting across Shawn’s sun-dappled and soot-covered skin. But the psychic caught those fingers and held them in place and Carlton frowned, the flat of his hand resting against Spencer’s pounding chest as he continued to speak.

“Lassie. What are you doing? You said we could talk.”

It’s true. He had. And would. But even if he was the only one who felt it, the moment was too intense to for him to interrupt with words, the feelings he’d carried around for too long forcing their way out through kisses and touches and caresses, the need to make sure Shawn was real – that he hadn’t died horrifically in that explosion and that whatever was between them could begin to heal – overwhelming him.

“So talk.”

Face nuzzled in the crook of the psychic’s neck, he mumbled into Spencer's skin and inhaled, the smell of gasoline and charred plaid sending a jolt straight through him.

“Never stopped you before.”

Shawn turned his head to look at him then, which was when Carlton took the opportunity to connect their mouths again, the stolen kiss eager, equally sloppy and sweet. And, noticing the lack of resistance, Carlton kissed him lazily – tasting Spencer as if the only thing he had to do for the rest of his life was seduce the man, his tongue slowly slipping past the psychic's teeth as he lackadaisically devoured him.

Whimpering into his mouth, Shawn’s hands clutched at the dark grey of Carltons jacket.

Carlton’s pulse raced in return, heart beating so hard he was surprised it hadn’t split open his shirt.

Well, would have been surprised, if he weren’t so swept away by the feeling.

It took almost nothing for this man to turn him on; how or why he'd ever tried to deny it in the first place was beyond him.

It was _obvious_ they were meant to be together.

The proof was in the way he felt when Shawn touched him. Taunted him. Teased him.

The way he stayed in Carlton’s head in his daylight hours _and_ in his dreams, Spencer’s obnoxious antics somehow irritating and arousing, a thing he used to hate and now somehow finds himself looking forward to.

The way the man cared for those he had deemed worthy somehow both frustrating and astounding, those few becoming the most important things in his life.

Carlton was hooked, line and sinker; stick a fork in him, he was done.

Shawn broke away first, breath heavy, his usually hazel eyes a brilliant flash of green. Oblivious to the thoughts racing through the Irishman’s mind, he looked up at the detective, a sharp look on his face as he licked his lip and spoke something Carlton hated but had no choice but to admit to.

“You hurt me, Lassie.”

Abashed, Carlton's head dropped to his chest.

He stared at Shawn’s feet as he answered, too ashamed to look him in the face.

It was true. He had, though he hoped to God that it would never happen again.

Carlton was shit at relationships, he knew that. _Everybody_ knew that. But there was something about the way Shawn looked at him in that moment that made him want to try harder than he ever had before.

He was going to fuck up again eventually. Shawn would, too; it was just in their natures, as human beings and as flawed men. But the thought of putting the psychic through the pain that he had, even a fraction of the pain he had, for a second time made Carlton feel sick. Which is why he swore to himself right then that if he was somehow lucky enough to get to do it all again, he was going to do everything in his power to do it better.

So much better.

Shawn deserved it.

They both did.

“I know.”

The words were a breath, riddled with an awareness that ate away at him like poison.

Shawn cocked his head and continued, and though he still couldn’t look directly at the man, Carlton could see him out of the corner of his eye. Shawn’s face was blank, his voice low and emotive, and it let Lassiter know that the admission alone wasn’t enough to fix things.

“You acted like I don't have feelings, too, Lassiepants. But I’m _chock-full_ of feelings and you just walked all over them with your pointy oversized clown shoes.”

Looking up, Carlton sighed, the truth of the matter slicing into him and settling deep.

It _was_ true. Far more than he wanted it to be. And though he would give anything to take it back, to his immense shame, he couldn’t.

Tone apologetic as the words tumbled from his mouth, he agreed.

“I know.”

He paused, brow furrowed.

Words weren’t enough, and he knew that, too.

“I'm an asshole.”

But they were a start.

“Honestly Lassie, asshole is the nicest phrase I'd use for it,” Shawn said. It was clear he was refusing to hold back, but at the same time, his arms wrapped back around Carlton’s waist and tempered the flood of emotion that came as each syllable hit the cop’s ears. “You should hear some of the things _Gus_ called you.”

Carlton nodded.

“I imagine he got pretty creative.”

Guster had an IQ rivaling his own and a vernacular even larger and, for a flickering moment, he indulged in his curiosity as to what well-earned phrases the pharma-rep had come up with, the man not known for his potty-mouth. But, intrigued though Carlton was, he knew it wasn’t the time to get into it and dropped the train of thought to continue with his apology.

“And as much as I’m loath to admit it, I deserve everything he said. Probably more than what he said. I was horrible, Spencer. I know this. And I was scared, not that it's an excuse.  But more than anything, I’m sorry. I… I wasn’t thinking about you.”

He paused. Swallowed, heart beating in his chest like a caged bird’s wings as it tried to break free from its wrought-iron prison.

“But I should have been.”

Shawn’s eyes softened in the dim light, just a little.

“I want to make it right. There’s nothing I can do to erase what happened, but I’d still like to try. If you’ll let me.”

Surprised by the unexpected honesty, Shawn looked at Carlton as Carlton stared at Shawn, a myriad of emotion crossing the span of two fallen faces in a single years-long second.

“Okay.”

The word was barely a whisper, but the acquiescence was everything Carlton had ever wanted to hear, presented to him in four beautiful little letters. And while he spoke, Spencer nodded his head in affirmation, clearly startled at himself for agreeing so easily but either unable or unwilling to stop himself.

It didn’t matter though.  Not when the result was the same.

Aware of exactly the type of fight the man could put up when he wanted, Carlton was startled too. But instead of worrying about it - instead of tearing himself up inside over how quick he was to agree without argument - Carlton stepped closer, wasting no time in pressing his mouth against the psychic's.

Shawn’s chest tightened and he could feel the man’s heart pound and how his whole body became gooseflesh as he let his hands wander. And in that moment, Carlton relished in the knowledge that Shawn was relishing it too.

He’d wanted to do it for so long - wanted to run his fingers across the dips and divots and ridges and planes of Spencer’s ribcage ever since denying himself all those weeks ago. Had almost been desperate for it, the idea of his fingers on Spencer’s flesh so pervasive, flickering through his mind at even the most inopportune of times. And now, nothing there to stop him, he did exactly that, deft fingers sliding quickly and stealthily inside the man’s partially buttoned blue and brown plaid shirt. 

 _Nothing_ was going to stop him anymore.

Not after what he had just been through.

What _they_ had been through.

That thought in mind, tongues tangled in a mock battle for dominance, and their kiss morphed into something hot and hungry as Carlton licked into Shawn’s mouth, the psychic whimpering as the cop took control. It was hot and dirty and soft and sweet, all passion and possession and burning wet heat, and it wasn’t long before Carton found himself re-positioning to allow for a better angle, the cop pulling away to bite at the slightly salty skin of the psychic’s neck, chuckling when his fingers slid beneath the dark denim Spencer wore to find his favorite fraud going commando.

Shawn swore, the word a gasp as his hips bucked into Carlton's searching hand, back arched as the cop found hot, hard flesh; Carlton’s long fingers sliding lackadaisically down Shawn's shaft to free him.

“Fuck…”

Carlton whispered in response, lips pressed against the tender flesh beneath the psychic’s jaw. He sucked a sign of possession into his skin, his mouth a brand announcing to the world that Shawn was his.

_His._

“Not quite.”

Shawn laughed, a nervous and overwhelmed laugh that broke off when he hissed at the sensation. And when the detective’s dastardly digits wrapped around him with a grip like velvet-covered steel, he mumbled -  

“Goddamn it, Lassie.”

\- into what flesh his mouth could reach, face pressed against the detective’s as his breath hitched.

Turning his head to kiss him again, Carlton smiled. Their lips connected with a spark that burned deep in his belly, his body thrumming with excitement as Spencer’s arms slipped beneath his coat to wrap around his waist. Shawn’s lips were soft and pliant, the scrape of stubble against Carlton’s jaw setting him alight.

Setting him on fire.

Making him feel like he was about to explode, splatter against the walls and live as nothing but a memory of how he felt at Shawn’s touch.

Exhilarated and terrified, the cop’s hand drifted, drawing out another sensual sound from between Shawn’s lips, the inarticulate noises sending waves of electricity skating down Carlton’s spine.

“Yes, Spencer?” he drawled, enraptured by the agony he knew he must be putting the man through. By the agony he was putting _himself_ through.

He’d spent the entirety of their non-relationship taking, and now the tables had turned, found himself enjoying the opportunity to give far more than he had expected he would.

He loved the way Shawn moaned.

Shook.

Loved the knowledge that _he_ was making Shawn feel this way.  

For a whole host of reasons, Carlton really should have reciprocated sooner.

“Wha- what are you doing?” Shawn said.

Melting into Carlton's talented hand, he looked at him with eyes full of wonder, the amazement at the motions the cop made obvious. And Carlton responded by licking at the hollow of Shawn’s throat, nipping and kissing his way down past exposed collarbone as he slowly lowered himself to his knees, the psychic’s eyes sparkling once he realized where things were headed.

“Whatever you want, Spencer,” he said plainly, holding the man’s gaze. He had said it before, but now it seemed that Shawn was finally understanding what he meant, the feeling both chilled and thrilled him. In a heart-warming, ball-tightening, unexpectedly amusing sort of way.

But he knew he couldn’t allow himself to get too wrapped up in it. Not when the psychic groaned, lips pressed together like he couldn't believe this was happening - like Shawn didn't want to open his mouth lest he say the wrong thing and make it go away.

Carlton suppressed a chuckle at the sight, a mischievous look on his face.

“What do you want?” he asked, softly, tongue darting out to taste the tiny drop of pre-cum he found at the tip of Shawn's erection, flicking into the slit when Shawn reacted favorably.

He savored its flavor, sharp and tangy and undeniably  _Spencer_ , heartbeat fluttering as he registered the psychic’s bliss.

Voice low and filled with heat, he continued.

“Do you want this?”

Fingers digging into his shoulders, Spencer mewled.

Carlton took it as encouragement.

Of course, Shawn wanted this.  Maybe even as much as Carlton did.

But he’d never actually blown somebody before.

He’d thought about it once or twice since Shawn had wrapped his own lips around Carlton’s dick, but never had a dick passed through his. Never even come close. But inexperienced as he was, Carlton prided himself on being an enthusiastic lover, able to listen to another’s body and their words, knowing when and how to move or not move based on their reactions.

And god, was Shawn ever reacting.

So, though he was winging it, he continued, hearing no complaints and reveling in the feeling of Shawn’s fingers against his scalp, the digits having left his shoulders to twist into his hair. He licked at the crown of the psychic’s cock like he’d seen the man do to many an orange crème-sicle.  Flattened his tongue and swirled it around the tip before sucking it deep into his mouth. Hollowed his cheeks as he bobbed up and down, the memory of Shawn recently performing that move on his ice-cream weakening his knees.

When Shawn's own knees buckled, Carlton grinned and grabbed him by the hip to steady him, glad the act affected the cocky consultant the same way it had him.

“Oh, God, Lassie. Fuck, Lassie, yes. Yes, please. _Please.”_

Carlton felt a surge of pride at that, determined now more than ever to make the man unravel. Determined to make the man moan his name more often, even if only the nickname he had once upon a time hated with a fiery passion.

The psychic’s thighs quivered. Carlton could feel his heart beat through his veins as his big hands held onto mobile hips, Shawn’s body carting forward as he slid deeper down Carlton’s throat, pants around his ankles and euphoria on his face.

His pulse raced to match Shawn’s own.

It wouldn’t be long before he achieved success.

With just a little bit of time, a few flicks of the tongue, and a little something extra, Carlton knew he could make Shawn fall to pieces.

He _knew_ it. Like he knew grass was green, the sky was blue, and that he was falling head over heels.

And shortly thereafter, fall to pieces was exactly what Shawn did.

“Ohh, god. Fuck, Lassie. Yessssssss, just like that.”

 

* * *

  

Shawn had no idea what was happening. 

Well, he knew his dick was tickling Lassie’s tonsils, but past that? His flabber was completely and utterly gasted, mind beyond boggled by how he’d managed to stumble into such a delightfully pornographic position.

He had saved Morgan - looking like a total bad-ass while doing so - and caught the bad guy (shame about it being Army Johnson), then gotten the A-OK from the paramedics. Other than some mild smoke inhalation, he was in perfect health for someone who’d almost gotten blown up. But he was exhausted, feeling it both physically and emotionally, bone deep.

By the time he was done his check-up, Gus had finagled himself into a position where he was able to chat up Conrad while she was being checked for her own injuries, Juliet giving orders a few feet away over the phone. So, both buddies busy, Shawn decided to head back to the car to wait until they were finished and could turn their attention to him instead, too tired to interrupt like he normally would have.

And though he had tried, to his chagrin, Shawn hadn’t been able to find Lassie in the fray, which meant he was left with nothing to do and no one to bother. But lacking Lassiter also meant that he was free to catch up on some napping while he waited - the Blueberry the perfect place to do so.

Lo and behold when he had found the detective nearby, leaning up against a wall, all wistful and weary-eyed!

How they'd gone from there to here so quickly, however, confused the hell out of him. One minute, they were maintaining a barely amicable working relationship; the next, his dick was down the detective’s throat. But, far too easy to allow himself to get distracted by the excitement the cop was creating in his pants, Shawn wasn't about to complain about it, choosing instead to enjoy the moment for what it was.

Because... once the fun was over a serious conversation was going to have to be had.

One he wasn’t sure either were ready for.

A niggling voice in the back of Shawn’s head – one that kind of sounded like Gus and kind of sounded like his mom, an odd and disconcerting combination if ever there was one - told him the exhilaration of Lassie's mouth on his junk was a temporary thing; a moment of joy that would last only until his orgasm ended, the detective likely to shy away from his desire the moment reality caught up to him.

He didn’t want it to be true. _Desperately_ didn’t want it to be true. But seeing as how Lassie’s brand seemed to be starting things he refused to finish, Shawn had been burned by the man too many times before to fathom an alternate ending, sad though it might be.

His dick was up, but he knew better than to allow his hopes to do the same. True, at that exact moment things felt _phenomenal_ and yes,  by the looks of it, this time Shawn _would_ get to finish, the not-psychic couldn’t help but want to guard himself against what he assumed would be inevitable pain, their track record suggesting it would wind up that way once again.

Yet…

Past-Lassie had only ever made the first move because Shawn had spurred him to, their dalliances occurring because he’d kick-started the detective into action. This time was different, though; Lassiter had accosted him all on his own, no help from anyone or thing other than Shawn’s near-death experience. He had reached his hand out to touch Shawn, reached his words out to caress him – words that Shawn had once spoken to try to make Lassie understand that his own feelings delved far deeper than just desire - and it left him wondering if the cop’s choice of statement was meant to echo the emotion he himself had felt at the time.

When he’d spoken in the bar, Shawn knew he was falling for the Lassiter – had already fallen, harder than he had when the detective had shoved him out of the car all those many nights ago, if he was being honest with himself – and his heart caught in his throat when he realized the feeling might not go just one way.

That the emotion might be reciprocated.

Was it possible the explosion had not only demolished the building, but Lassiter’s reticence as well? He had apologized, after all. More than that, he had admitted he was wrong - that he been _scared_ \- something the psychic was sure he’d never hear.

So, he wondered, was it safe to assume that Carlton’s mouth on his cock, hot and wet and needy, moving over his flesh devilishly and doing so at an active fucking crime scene of all places… did that mean that Lassie wasn’t scared anymore? That he had moved past his self-hating bullshit and stepped into a place where he not only wanted Shawn’s affection but wanted to return it as well?

Both men having come a long way from that night in the bathroom, it surely had to mean something.

But what?

Shawn wasn’t sure. Nor was he likely to figure it out any time soon, because that was when Lassie began to hum - a tune Shawn thought he recognized but couldn't quite recall, his brain flying out the window the second the sound began. He took a moment to appreciate the image – to let it sear into his brain like it was being branded there - and found himself surprised when Lassiter’s mouth continued to maneuver, the man swallowing him whole, face pressed into the psychic’s soft pubic hair as he slid nose to groin and nuzzled.

Looking down at the detective, Shawn scrambled for coherent thought, mind and cock both utterly blown, the combination of sight and sensation doing something to him that he didn’t have words for. That he didn’t even _need_ words for, not with his feelings as strong as they were. But he failed. Failed _hard._ And as he did so, the edges of his world grew hazy, the last thought in his head before he crumbled an amazed one.

_If Lassie's never had a dick in his mouth, he must be a cock-sucking savant._

* * *

Rising to his feet, Carlton wiped his lower lip and watched in amusement as Shawn leaned against the grimy wall and struggled to zip his pants.

The psychic caught his eye, a sated and stupid look on his face as he opened his mouth to speak, and Carlton grinned at the intelligence that fell from it.

“That was…” Shawn paused, more flustered than Carlton could remember seeing him. “Umm...”

Proud of himself for reducing the psychic to something far less suave than he pretended to be, both Carlton’s grin and his desire to ruffle the man grew wider. Eyes locked on Spencer’s, he lifted his hand to his face and licked the tip of his thumb, reveling in the look of shock on Shawn’s face as his tongue swiped away the mess left behind.

“Sweet?” he supplied.

Spencer turned pink, a chuckle escaping him as he ran his hand along the short hairs at the back of his neck.

“Well yeah, Lassie.” He flashed the cop a sheepish grin. “I mean, you didn't think I ate all that pineapple for my _own_ benefit, did you?"  
  
Carlton felt the blood rush to his ears, a blush creeping across his face to match the one Spencer wore.

“Honestly, I guess I just thought it was one of your quirks,” he shrugged.

Shawn laughed, loud and raucous, like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard Carlton say.

“Think about my quirks often, do you?”

Finished with his pants, Spencer started in on his shirt, obviously aware of the answer and smirking as he spoke. But Carlton chose to ignore the gentle mockery, instead stepping forward to help, his fingers running along the psychic's ribcage before bringing the fabric closed.

He loved the feel of the other man’s flesh. _Loved_ it.

And now he’d finally given himself permission, he was determined to enjoy it as often as he could; the sensation like a drug coursing through his veins - a touch-drug; illicit and illegal, or at least the feelings it smothered him with were so intense that it should be.

Straightening the shirt’s lapels and smoothing down its front, he muttered, task completed.

“I do these days.”

He shook his head at the absurdity of it and took a step back to admire his handiwork, contentment enveloping him instead of what was once confusion.

He was happy.

 _Shawn Spencer_ made him happy.

If that just wasn’t the craziest thing.

“You'll d-” he began, before being interrupted by the focus of his thoughts, Shawn’s face far too serious for the question he was asking.

“What were you humming?”

There was something weird about the tone of his voice, almost like his brain had ground to a halt, his inability to recollect the tune nearly murdering the mood that had just been set. It was odd and unexpected and because of it, it took a second for Carlton to register the comment. And when the words finally sunk in? He laughed, open and free.

“Don't tell me you don't recognize it, Spencer. I thought _you_ of all people would know it inside out.”

Arms wrapped around the detective’s waist, Shawn took the opportunity to snuggle close, an act of intimacy so sweet it made Carlton’s skin tingle.

“What are you talking about, Lassiekins?” he mumbled into Carlton’s chest, lips tickling the exposed skin of his sternum, his tie discarded somewhere along the way.

The motion gave Carlton the warm and fuzzies.

He never would have guessed Spencer to be especially affectionate - though really, he should have, considering how touchy-feely the man had been towards him over the years - and was surprised by how much he loved the fact that it was aimed his way. It was almost as if Shawn was touch starved, not simply an attention whore but desperate for a real connection, something that meant more than a hand on his shoulder or a friendly punch in the arm. Something that meant more than the soft caress of someone who would be gone in the morning, unlikely to ever remember your name. And, as he became aware of it, Carlton’s stomach twisted into a pit of pity and despair, the realization that he’d been mistaking Shawn’s actions as annoyance instead of what they really were - failing to see his heart and soul and need and desire, even though the man had been baring it to him for ages - weakening his knees just as the explosion had weakened his resolve.

“Just because I have near-encyclopaedic knowledge of 80's -” Shawn continued, a small and adorable frown wrinkling his brow.

“Oh, it has nothing to do with the vault of pop-culture knowledge you keep in that big brain of yours,” Carlton interjected, cocking his head to look down at the other man, enjoying the opportunity to flip their dynamic on its head and rid himself of an anguished feeling he couldn’t otherwise fix.

He’d learned the hard way that the past would always be the past. There was nothing he could do to change that. But there was plenty he could do to change the future, and that’s exactly what he intended to do. So he wrapped his arms around the man, hands running down his arms and back as he held him close and teased the crap out of him.

It was a delicious and uncommon novelty, the cop so used to it being the other way around, and you could be damn sure he was going to milk it for all it was worth.

Shawn, of course, protested, his arms tightening at the detective’s midsection as he searched Carlton’s face for the answer.

“But I'm sure it came out in the late 80's, Lassiepants! It sounds exactly like it’s from the land of hammerpants and Degrassi Junior High!”

Leaning in for another kiss, Carlton purred, pleased and surprised that they hadn't yet been discovered. It wasn’t smart, he knew, but he also wasn’t ready for things to end, so decided to push his luck a little further, far too happy basking in the glow of their togetherness.

(And wanting to torment the man in his arms a little longer, of course.)

“Mmmm. Doesn’t matter, psychic. It’s not the reason you should know it. Are the spirits failing you all of a sudden?”

A childlike scowl crossed Spencer’s face, a petulant reaction if ever Carlton had seen one, and he found himself laughing when the man replied unexpectedly with an easy air and a lopsided grin.

“Obviously, Classy Lassie! They couldn’t bear to witness our down and dirty. You _clearly_ frightened them away. Except for Todd. Todd’s a pervert and says thanks for the show. But also that he doesn’t know the answer, either.”

Carlton just shook his head, eyes crinkling with mirth, his silence goading the psychic more than his words ever could. It was fucking _delightful_ , the conniption Shawn worked himself towards the most beautiful thing he’d experienced in a while.

He would have to remember the tactic - silence really _was_ golden.

“Gimme a hint?” his lover asked, lower lip quivering melodramatically in a way that put small children to shame.

His _lover_.

Holy shit, Shawn was his lover.

When it turned into the most pathetic pout he had ever seen, big bright puppy dog eyes turned his way, Carlton couldn’t help but crumble.

It was a weird juxtaposition; he knew the psychic was twisting him around his finger, the expression a manipulation tactic of his very own. But combined with the thoughts flashing in his head, the memory of Spencer grabbing his crotch on the karaoke stage and how he’d looked when he’d done so, the cop shivered, shaken by the promise that had been on Shawn’s face and remembering exactly how it had been made to come true.

“What do you do when you think about me?” he asked, voice hoarse and heavy at the thought.

The answer evident, Shawn’s face split into a lascivious grin.

“I Touch Myself!” he exclaimed, his arms flying around his detective’s shoulders in delight, fingers splayed wide against the back of Carlton’s neck. “You _did_ like my performance after all!”

“Mmhmm,” Carlton whispered, burrowing into Shawn’s neck and placing tiny kisses along the length of it to distract the man, his voice low and sensual in response. “A touch too much, if you’ll recall. Now…” he said, nipping at thin skin and hoping it left a little sting behind, knowing in his gut that Shawn would like it if it did. “What year?”

Shifting in place, Shawn wracked his brain.

It seemed like it took forever, but when he finally figured out the answer, he groaned. Unable to believe he was wrong, the sound quickly turned into a grumble as he admitted his failure and Carlton’s success.

“November. Of 19-frikkin’-90.”

Carlton stuck out his tongue, his heart fluttering at the surprised look on Spencer’s face, the man reacting beautifully to the expression he had never seen Carlton wear before. That Carlton _himself_ wasn’t sure he’d ever worn before. It was crazy, how happiness seemed to suit him – _true happiness_ \- to a degree he wasn’t used to experiencing, the psychic already bringing out a side of himself he hadn’t allowed to see the light of day in a very long while.

“See? Not the ‘80’s at all. You were wrong,” the cop replied smugly. “Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. And in case you weren’t quite sure, I _love it_ when you’re wrong.”

Shawn laughed, his eyes sparkling with glee as he acknowledged his defeat.

“You suck,” he said, kissing Carlton on the tip of his nose and holding him close, body pressed against body like he never wanted them to part.

It was possible he didn’t.

Carlton didn’t, either.

But he knew they’d have to, and dipped his head and kissed his psychic again, pulling away only to agree.

“Clearly.”

* * *

 “Shawn, you over here?”

Both men froze, Gus's voice ringing out from across the parking lot.

Closing in on the Blueberry, the more responsible of the Psych duo continued to call out as he approached. “If you are, you better be ready and waiting to go. I swear to God, if you’re about to jump out at me from somewhere to try to make me wet myself like you did back in third grade, I'm gonna be pissed.”

Guster paused.

“Pun not intended, Shawn. Pun _not_ intended.”

Carlton shot Shawn a questioning glance and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“Do that often?” he mouthed, gathering control of himself.

Shawn shrugged.

“Old habits die hard.”

“Shawn, you better not be messing with me. Getting blown up is exhausting. I just wanna shower and sleep and eat. Maybe not even in that order.”

Carlton opened his mouth to speak again but Shawn interjected, keeping his voice low as not to be overheard.

“Not now, Lassie. Timing's bad.” He stepped away, looking like it killed him to do so. “But soon. I promise. I just… I gotta go.”

Carlton reached out after him, a little unsettled by how quickly he found himself becoming attached, finding that he missed the man’s presence in his arms already.

 _Already_.

Jesus Christ, he had it bad.

He couldn’t ever remember having it this bad.

Not for his college girlfriend, not for his ex-wife, not for the handful of women he’d bedded since then.

It was exquisite and it was agonizing, and he wondered if this was a fraction of what addicts felt like when they couldn’t get their next fix.

“We need to talk, you said.”

“We do, and we will,” Shawn agreed. “But not now. I'll text you. Or call. Or show up at your house in the middle of the night with a jar of Skippy and some department issued handcuffs. Don’t worry; we'll figure something out.”

Carlton smirked, adding another odd behavior to the list of things he needed to worry about. He wouldn’t put it past Shawn even slightly and made a mental note to reinforce the locks on his door.

“And until then?” he asked.  
  
“Things remain the same?” Shawn offered, Cheshire Cat grin on his face. The tips of his fingers trailed against Carlton’s as he turned to leave.

It felt like kerosene burning through his veins.

“But with more smoochies, of course.”

His heart caught in his chest.

“Of course.”

Of course it was of course. Carlton wouldn’t have it any other way.

What more could he say? That he was falling in love with the man, harder than he’d ever fallen for anyone before? That his entire world had been changed by this event – not just the explosion and the blowjob, but the unprecedented feelings that came with it? Feelings that rained down on him like a torrent of pouring emotion, too heavy for any umbrella to bear?

That he was sorry? More sorry than was even humanly possible?

None of it mattered, because he was sure Shawn knew it all.

“I can’t wait to kiss you again,” Shawn smiled, leaving him with a lingering look of desire as he stepped out into the light provided by the half-closed door. The bottom part of his body appeared in the sun outside like a bad Monty Python gag as he made himself known to his friend, and Carlton covered his mouth with his hand, stifling a laugh. “In here, buddy! Dropped my keys earlier – just found 'em!”

He turned to consider Carlton one last time, blowing a kiss from the door before ducking beneath it to rejoin the real world.

Carlton caught it and held it close to his heart, the muscle pitter-pattering in his chest. And as he recognized and allowed himself to feel like an overjoyed schoolgirl, he leaned against the spot on the wall his lover had vacated and reveled in the moment he felt was more than earned and far too long coming.

“Get anywhere with Conrad?” he heard Shawn ask his best friend and partner in crime as they met near the car. “I mean, I know she’s hospital bound, but she seemed pretty into your ooey-gooey chocolatey goodness...”

“Well... up until today, she had not, as a matter of fact, heard about Pluto.”

Guster responded, and Carlton heard Shawn laugh as he climbed into the car.

The sound, once grating and obnoxious, was music to his ears.

“You don't say? That's pretty messed up, bro.”

A lot was messed up, Carlton knew. But a lot was finally starting to go his way.

He had his dream job, a good partner and friend, and once they untangled the mess they’d made together, he’d have Shawn to call his own.

For once, everything in his life was wonderful.

And that was just fine.

More than fine.

Resting his head against the wall behind him, Carlton smiled. 

It was downright dandy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this wound up taking six months to post. Life got in the way, as it tends to do. Also, Happy Pride to all the girls, boys, and everyone in between reading and following my works. Hope you have the best June humanly possible!


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